


Unexpected

by WaryJMS



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Missing Moments, Sherlock being an adorable doofus, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 21:06:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7590376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaryJMS/pseuds/WaryJMS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock floods the flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unexpected

«Leaking».

John Watson gently brushes his index finger against the metallic surface, slowly, as if worried to find it covered with some strange sort of radioactive sludge. When he raises it, the finger is wet: a droplet of more or less transparent water shattered itself on his skin; the damp fingertip confirms his uncomfortable theory.

«It was just a matter of time». The voice of the consulting detective comes, muffled, from the living room: as it usually happens during the interval of time that takes place between cases, Sherlock Holmes is bored, _so damn bored_ , and is now laying on the couch, prone, his face pressed on the cushion. His locks flutter while he mumbles against the violet pillowcase. «Anybody could have guessed your password with their eyes closed».

John is used to his ramblings, therefore he, for one moment, doesn't even hear his comment; he continues, under his breath, almost talking to himself: «we'll need a plumber, damn it... finding a plumber in London, in the middle of the summer». Suddenly he seems to register, late, what Sherlock has said. «What-- no, no, the pipe is leaking, Sherlock. The sink's pipe, not my website...».

«Oh». Sherlock isn't moving. «Well, it's still a matter of time».

John murmurs something about passwords, then he raises his voice to address the consulting detective, still laying on the couch in the other room. «... pipe which should be fixed by you, since it's entirely your fault if it's broken».

«My fault?». Sherlock raises his head from the couch, glancing at him.

«Mmh».

«And why would that be?». 

John frowns. His eyes shift from one side to the other of the room, as if searching for a significant reason to the total obliviousness of his friend. «Wasn't it you who, yesterday evening, removed half of the sink's bolts just because – word for word – you _“needed them”_?».

Quotation marks are gestured in the air. Sherlock rolls his eyes. _Melodramatic._  
«... No?».  
«Oh, yes, now I remember. It was me. Or maybe it was Mrs. Hudson?».  
«John...»  
«No, no, I'm fairly certain it was me. As it was me who almost set the kitchen on fire two weeks ago by trying to _microwave human eyes for two hours!_ »

Suddenly Sherlock jumps up, standing up in a swift movement from the couch. John observes as the consulting detective, having walked away from the couch, faltering – he must have spent five hours or six in that position – strolls without hesitance onto the table, making documents and books fall to the ground: then again he steps down, walks across the room until he gets in front of the kitchen, where John is standing.  
His eyes become bigger and he tilts his head on a side. «John. It was important. I needed it for a case».

John chuckles. He knows all too well that tactic: widened eyes, tilted head, naïve voice. Sherlock uses it every time he wanted to obtain, in order of frequency, cigarettes, top-secret information from Lestrade or the thirteenth tea of the day from Mrs Hudson. _(“With biscuits!”)._ Obviously, hardly anybody fell for it. 

John walks by his figure, not giving him the slightest attention, going to sit on his chair. He moves his laptop from there to the ground. «I stopped believing you at least three years ago, Sherlock».  
«It was worth a try».  
«You know what, Sherlock?», John murmurs, browsing through the pages of his newspaper, heading towards the sport section. «I won't even look at that sink. This time is up to you. You broke it, you fix it. And if you don't, I don't care: you'll put on a good pair of boots and you'll walk around in...».

 

«Two inches of putrefying water».  
A day was all it took.  
In the first hours Sherlock had wandered in the flat as his usual, completely ignoring the leaking droplets' ticks. _Tick. Tick._ Lestrade had stopped by, bringing him documents for a case; “clearly a level five”, Sherlock had grumbled, and he had agreed to help him from home, as he usually did in those situations. John had stayed outside for a large part of the day; he, instead, had worked on the case until late afternoon, sitting on the kitchen table.

The problems had started there.  
It was draining, that little sound that came from his left: _tick, tick._ Sherlock couldn't think of anything else. If he managed to pay attention to something else for a mere moment, the sound came back to mock him: _tick, tick_ , change the slide, _tick, tick,_ look inside the microscope, _tick, tick_ , that sound wouldn't ever, ever stop...  
No.

Suddenly, full of rage and irritation, he'd knelt in front of the sink. The drops were now more persistent; water fell from the pipe with more insistence. He'd closed his eyes. _There must be something in this damn mind palace that could help me right now._ But nothing: recognizing ash, 243 types of tobacco, patterns of butterflies' wings...

In an impetus of sudden desperation Sherlock had shaken the pipe a few times, blasted with his fists against the tubing in an attempt to fix everything without the bolts that – of course – he'd lost.  
For a moment there had been silence.  
Then a stream of water had hit him on the face. 

 

Now, sitting on the back of his chair as a kid playing _The floor is lava_ , Sherlock observes the drenched carpet and the case's documentation that, illegible, floats around on a thin layer of water, pervading 221B's kitchen and living room.

John, on his left, is on the phone with someone – Lestrade? - and is passing a hand on his face. He's wearing wellington boots and has rolled his trousers up to the knees. «I told you, Greg. Two inches of putrefying water...!». He turns around to glance at Sherlock, but he's, at all costs, trying to avoid his eyes. «Alright, alright. I'll call you later».  
John sighs, closing his eyes. «Greg's furious, Sherlock. All these documents... top-secret files. He's gonna get fired if they notice they're missing. Christ... Sherlock? Are you list-».  
Too late: John opens his eyes but the chair is empty, the water tingling where Sherlock has passed.  
He sighs again. Great mess.

Then he sees it.  
His laptop, sitting on the highest shelf of the room. He remembers too well were he'd left it: on the floor, in front of his chair.  
John looks behind him at the floating, illegible documentation. Then he turns his attention again to his useless, old laptop, whose only particularity lays in its owner.  
He blinks.  
That was unexpected.


End file.
